The Wand Tree
by reallyhatebananas
Summary: Bill Weasley is left all alone. And he wants his revenge. TimeTravel!Bill. Dark!Bill. Slash, Bill Weasley X James Potter.


**A/N:** Written for the 'Can You Write A Romance' Competition. And yeah. I'm a professional procrastinator. Which is why I need somebody willing to bash me over the head. Anyway. This is AU and takes place in the alternate seventh book. Everything will be explained. Except you'll probably still end up being confused.

**Disclaimer:** I'm pretty sure that Rowling is good at keeping to deadlines. _I_, on the other hand, well…

Special thanks to my wonderfully amazing beta, Dragons.

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><p>A tree. Part of the elusive xylocarpus family, but still – it's a <em>tree<em>. And nothing more.

That's what he's searching for – the Order (what's left of it, at least) sent him off on a fool's errand to hunt for what's merely a legend. A myth.

The Wand Tree, Bill thinks savagely, doesn't exist. And there's no way for him to find it in time to win the war. But oh, he wishes it were true – wishes that there _were_ a way to find this ruddy magical plant or whatever the hell it is because he _needs to win_. Not wants or wishes or hopes – he _needs_ it with a passion bright and fiery and icy hot like the sun or the moon or the stars – needs to grind out the spell that will send that dark bastard and all his cohorts into the blackest depths of hell.

Because he doesn't care about that Chosen One rubbish anymore. He isn't willing to wait. He's a Weasley with the passion of the Weasley – and, well, the searing love has turned to hate now that there're so many gone.

_Mum Dad Ron Fred Charlie Fleur…_ is the mantra running through his head, filling his brain with echoing images of the loved ones he's lost because Voldemort targeted the Weasley family because he knew, he _knew_ that the hurt would destroy Harry Potter –

And it did.

Only Bill – kind, compassionate Bill – can't bring himself to care that the world's savior has been reduced to a bloody mess of tears and scars and _given up_.

Because if he hadn't, well, then Bill might hate him, the cause of all his family's grief, just a bit more.

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><p><em>And Bill Weasley has always been the vengeful one. <em>

* * *

><p>So when he finds it against all odds – that bloody xylocarpus tree – Bill's first reaction is to stand, still and gawking, feeling the rush as hatred and power and lust for violence swim within him, entangling themselves into one painful knot of hell.<p>

He's not afraid, though. Because he _is _that hell. He controls it – or maybe, a small voice thinks, it controls him – but then, is it that big of a difference?

And his enemies are going to pay.

But the thing is, Bill's always been the passionate one – yeah, hatred and power and lust are so strong – but not the most controlled. So he makes an elementary mistake and he latches onto the bark of the tree with both hands, _pullingpullingpulling_ because he needs to get that wood – needs to feel the power _needs to make a wand that can kill_ –

"Silly Bill," his mum would've said affectionately, except she's not here. She's dead, a corpse, white and gaunt and bound to do the monster's bidding. Just like his brothers.

And his teachers.

And everyone he's ever loved.

So he has no guiding influence anymore. And his magic is too wild and uncontrolled – well, actually, it's doing a fine job controlling _him_ – so the reaction when he touches the ancient tree isn't good.

Too much power, too much hate.

There's an explosion like a sonic boom and then Bill Weasley is gone.

* * *

><p><em>But then again, was he ever really there in the first place? <em>

* * *

><p>He's awake within moments and he's staring into the face of Harry Potter.<p>

His first reaction is a surge of terrifying hate and the longing to _killkillkill_ the boy in front of him because it's _his fault that his family's been destroyed_ –

Only he can't – he's got to wait. Harry must serve his purpose first. Once Voldemort is dead, then Bill can have his revenge.

"Harry?" he croaks, and his voice is rusty, teeth sour and rough. There's something strange, though, about the face in front of him – too full, and were Harry Potter's eyes always that _brown_? He could've sworn they were green – "Harry?"

Those horrifyingly plain eyes blink before pulling away, and Bill, sitting up, notices all the little differences that make this scene so _wrong_. The hair is too thick, cheekbones too high, and skin too pale – bleached, almost, so very _white_. Potter's always been so ruddy tanned.

And Merlin, those hands – those eyes – those _lips_ –

So it's not Potter, it can't be – no, it _definitely_ can't. Unlike Harry, the boy has that dignified aura about him: that fine-boned, pureblooded _something_ that differentiates the old families from those with mixed blood. The Weasleys don't have it – they're too far gone for that – and nothing shows through the darkened outer crust of Harry Potter's life; the boy's like the proverbial diamond in the rough, only with the precious stone long removed, leaving behind a clump of heavy clay.

True purebloods, though – the Longbottoms and the Bells and the Blacks – well, they stand out. Like Draco Malfoy, with his shining hair and eyes and pointed chin, they're ethereal and that fact makes them royalty all on its own.

They walk on water – hell, they walk on _air_.

They're beautiful, and the oldest Weasley boy has always been so intrigued by that allure.

Bill watches the perfect fairy-boy in front of him open his sculpted lips and he doesn't care what he's saying because _he's found what he's looking for in this beautifulbeautifulbeauiful boy. _

* * *

><p><em>Only that doesn't erase all the hate.<em>

* * *

><p>As it turns out, though, the boy's name is James Potter. Bill nods along to his explanation of what happened – <em>bang, explosion, smoke<em> – and ignores the fact that he's decades in the past.

What does it matter when everybody's dead?

Loads, actually, because Bill has the chance to fix what was done. He gets the shot that he never had to stop the monster and can allow his family to reform, years off in the future.

And he can claim this James Potter and keep him from mating and then _Harry bloody Potter_ will never be born. And the Weasleys – what'll be left of them – will be safe.

Oh yes, Bill is oh so happy with his plan.

He feels the darkness in him rising, that cold, icy _thing_ that's been plaguing him since the death of Dumbledore and that night at the tower – knotted scars marring his dusty face –

He's not a werewolf, but he's not fully human either. Bill doesn't really mind, though, and is sure it won't stop him from taking James Potter.

This boy is, after all, so elfin himself.

When James first extends an invitation Bill sees that same _darkness_ in the other boy's eyes, watching the thin lips twist with a strange mixture of malice and joy, and knows that James Potter is not as innocent as he appears. The fey form and delicate face hide something as _wrong_ as what's beneath Bill's dull, freckled skin.

And the monster inside of him finds that _sososo_ appealing.

So he follows the boy home and plans how he'll eat him alive.

When they reach the manor it's nearly dusk, pale black seeping into the light of the sky. Bill thinks it's strangely beautiful, as if the heavens themselves are mourning the lives that were lost.

The lives that _will_ be lost.

The monster inside of him shakes in anticipation, strengthened by the waning light of the moon. Bill shoves it aside.

James Potter grins. "We're here," he says, that same glint of _something_ deep in those ugly eyes. White, white teeth. Coloured lips.

* * *

><p><em>Bill Weasley is home.<em>

* * *

><p>Potter – <em>James<em> – takes pity on a wayward traveller and allows Bill to stay at the Potter home. It's not a flamboyant construction of marble and velvet and gold like the manors of Bill's time, but nor is it the splintering tower in which he was raised.

He doesn't much care.

He ends up staying for weeks on end, because there's no way to get back to his own time – not that he cares. He'll strike at Voldemort when he's ready; kill the soon-to-be Death Eaters when he gets the chance. He's got all the time in the world.

But right now, he's far too busy to consider leaving the object of his obsession.

_James Potter_.

The boy is like a wisp of glowing smoke, insubstantial and oh so _frustrating _as it slips through Bill's fingers. The two are engaged in some sort of accidental dance, weaving and ducking about each other while waiting for the other to crack. Because Bill _needs_ James Potter (or maybe it's only the wolf inside of him – but really, aren't they one and the same?) and James Potter is too elusive, too used to being unattainable, to be caught.

Only one time he isn't and that's when Bill cracks.

They're in James' silk-and-wispy cotton room, reclining on the plushy chaise longue, when the younger boy sits up with a smirk upon his face.

Bill watches and waits.

James seems so sweetly oblivious – though, of course, he is anything but – as he pulls the robes over his head, exposing a too-scrawny chest, still smooth and bare because he isn't yet an adult.

Only fourteen. The boy is so _young_.

And for the first time Bill Weasley understands Fenrir Greyback; he understands _why_ the werewolf attacks child after child when given the chance. Bill has only the smallest portion of the beast inside of him but it's enough and he _needs to have this innocent boy_.

The devil child, more like.

So he lunges for James, ignoring the expression of shock on the delicate face, and presses slobbery – _animal_ – kisses to the jutting collarbone and the velvety neck. And the younger boy's tension fades as he writhes below the dully freckled form, imagining an elongating snout, slitting pupils and claws –

James Potter knows very well the monster inside of Bill Weasley. Maybe it's saying something that he doesn't care.

The half-man-half-wolf stops after moments of ecstasy when he sees blood shining on the silky skin, realizing that the teeth and the claws of his imagined form have gone too deep. But it's all right because the younger boy is still smiling, still lost in pure bliss.

"I love you," Bill rasps out, except he doesn't. And they both know that. But he _needs_ him – needs him so much there's a tight knot of want in his lower belly – and, well, that's just as good as love, right?

"I know," James breathes, and they both know he's lying.

* * *

><p><em>But they don't really care.<em>

* * *

><p>So James Potter and Bill Weasley become one, ignoring the frantic calls of parents and teachers and friends as the older man takes his young lover into the woods where he can feel at home.<p>

His little pet is, after all, too fey to live amongst the humans. He deserves to be with others of his kind – the elves and the fairies and all of those magical creatures born and bred in the rich-with-life forests.

Bill decides to ignore the fact that those forests were burnt to the ground in his time. It doesn't matter, because everything is different now.

He has James.

For once, both the man and the wolf are in perfect agreement: James Potter is a porcelain doll, too fragile for the harsh reality of the outside world. Too perfect to be harmed.

So he keeps him inside the safe haven he's created, ignoring the gradually appearing fear on that beautiful face and the anger and the fists and the _why won't you bloody let me out?_

"It's all right, precious," the wolf croons, because Bill Weasley has been lost somewhere in the darkness. "It's all right. Daddy won't let anything hurt you."

Except he's not his daddy. He's his _lover_. Even if he doesn't love the boy, he obsesses over him, and that's got to count for something, right?

Yes. He's sure of it.

That's why he finds a tree, so similar to the ruddy tree that was part of the xylocarpus family or a Wand Tree or whatever the hell it was – because that's where it all began. Kind of. He holes his beautiful boy up in the trunk, knowing that the tree will keep him safe.

The man with the tarnished hair and the dull face spends sunlit days outside, pacing _aroundaroundaround_ where his sweet boy is kept. He'd sacrifice his life to protect his child, so the boredom of a few hours is nothing to him at all.

And then night falls and the howls begin and Bill Weasley and James Potter become one as the beast is freed. And Bill sinks his teeth and his nails and his _self_ into the other boy as memories flash through his head, nostalgia crackling to the surface.

He remembers candlelit nights and vows of love and the monster – that horrible monster that broke free of its restraints and tore and ravaged and destroyed the lithe form of the woman he loved, until she was nothing more than a floppy doll with silken blond hair.

_Pale. Just like his china boy._

And he remembers the grief and the anger as he attacked the redheads, the ones who told him to _stop_, because that darkened _thing _inside of him was so angry and it couldn't bear the shame and then he awoke again and his wife and his family were dead –

He remembers the tears of the tousle-haired boy – not beautiful like his father is – and the way he snarled at the youngster, reducing him to shreds of pain.

And he remembers blaming that darkened splotch of evil on his forearm, waking with no memory of the night before except screams of pain and flashes of death.

So one day when the beautiful boy awakes, childish drool on his chin with tear-filled eyes and flushed cheeks and soft lips, Bill clasps him tight and whispers to the youngster, "You'll die. You'll die."

He won't let him die. He'll watch the world burn and laugh as it's razed to the ground, but James Potter cannot die.

So he disappears with a crack, returning to that place where it all began. A man with dark hair and a devious smile looks up and Bill sees the waxy gauntness of evil on that pale face – only, it's not quite gone to the dark. Not yet.

"I'm here to serve you, my Lord," he says, bowing his head, because this man may or may not be responsible for the destruction of that _other_ world but here Bill has James. And only the man named Tom Riddle can truly keep him safe.

And Bill imagines his mum in the corner, laughing. "_Silly Bill, silly Bill_," she murmurs, and Bill wants to scream until there's nothing but silence pressing down on his ears. He can't, though, because the Dark Lord is stepping closer. Bill stands up straight.

There's pain as the mark is embedded into his skin, and a shriek of horror from James as he, too, is branded. But Bill comforts his lover with a kiss, promising that later the pain will be forgotten in a tangle of teeth and legs and passion and lust.

And Lord Voldemort smiles that empty smirk as Albus Dumbledore wakes with a start.

* * *

><p><em>Because this war was lost long before it began.<em>

* * *

><p>I don't even know where this came from. Feel free to laugh.<p> 


End file.
